He's My Son
by Mrs.EdwardElric610
Summary: Arthur is on his knees praying that a God he hardly believes in will spare the life of his sick son. This is a songfic with the song He's My Son by Mark Shultz. Some of the words have been changed to accomadate the anime. I don't own Hetalia or the song.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur Kirkland raised his head from his hands to look up at the still form on the hospital bed. Four year old Alfred slept there, looking so tiny in the big bed. His face was flushed with fever, and his messy, fine blond hair was matted with sweat at the temples and across his forehead. The vivid blue eyes were hidden behind closed lids. His breath was nothing more than labored panting that kept time with the erratic beeping of the heart monitor. A doctor stepped into the room, checking monitors and printouts. Arthur watched as the doctor talked in an undertone to a nurse who both shook their heads. It was obvious what they were thinking. Arthur knew exactly what was going on. It was what he had feared since Alfred had first gotten sick.

His little boy was dying.

Francis sat at Alfred's bedside, stroking the pudgy hand and crooning a French lullaby as his eyes filled with tears. He was trying so hard not to cry, trying to be strong for his son. But he was so tired. They both were Arthur dropped his head back into his hands. In his lap slept Alfred's twin brother, Matthew. The lanky young boy had his long arms wrapped around Arthur's neck with his face buried into his father's shoulder. He didn't understand what was going on, why Alfred wouldn't play with him anymore, why his brother was always sleeping. It was heartbreaking.

"I'm going for a bit of fresh air." Whispered Arthur as he carefully stood, laying Matthew onto the chair. The boy slept on, shoulder length blond hair falling over his face. Arthur scooped Matthews beloved stuffed polar bear from the floor where it had fallen; he tucked it close to Matthew, who sighed contentedly. Francis nodded distractedly, never taking his eyes from the sick child.

Arthur's feet took him through corridors and down the elevator, past dark rooms and dim hallways. Even with the bright colors on the walls, it was still a grim place. Children's hospitals were always the ones that tried hardest to be cheerful, but were always the most depressing. Filled with little kids that were sleeping, quiet and still when they should have been playing, laughing, running around...

He found himself standing in front of a pair of wooden double doors on the first floor. The lettering on the wall said "Chapel". Arthur was not a particularly religious man. He had always been shoved from Protestant to Catholic to Anglican depending on his monarch... it was exhausting. When asked, his answer was always that he preferred to keep a few steps back from the subject and let everyone believe what they wanted. But he _did_ believe.

And now he slipped into the quiet, empty chapel and fell to his knees in front of the cross. The tears he had been holding back for so long poured down his cheeks in a torrent. His sobs were nearly silent gasps in the silence. He knew, he _knew_ that he couldn't do anything more for his son. He knew the doctors didn't have any more ideas to help Alfred. There was only one other who could possibly save the little boy.

_Down on my knees again tonight_

_Hoping this prayer will turn out right._

_There is a boy who needs your help,_

_I've done all I can do by myself._

_His Papa is tired..._

_He sits and holds his hand._

_And he tries not to cry_

_as the tears fill his eyes._

_Can you hear me?_

_Am I getting through tonight?_

_Can you see him?_

_Can you make him feel all right?  
>If you can see him, <em>

_let me take his place somehow_

_See, he's not just anyone..._

_He's my son..._

Arthur turned his streaming eyes to the stained glass window. The moon was full, almost like sunlight, and the image of Christ looked down at him with those sad, understanding eyes. Arthur thought about all the things he had done, all the horrible, sinful things. He wasn't a good man, wasn't someone that any God would love... but Alfred was just a child. So innocent. Would God shun a little boy just for his father's sins? Surely not...

He stared into those eyes and thought of his little Alfred, before he got sick. Playing with his brother, trying to feed Kumajiro his dinner when nobody was watching, tying a towel around his neck and playing superhero.

_Sometimes late at night_

_I sit and I watch him sleep._

_I think of the boy he'd like to be._

_He's so tired..._

_and he's scared..._

_let him know that you're there._

_Can you hear me? _

_Am I getting through tonight?_

_Can you see him?_

_Can you make him feel alright?_

_If you can see him_

_let me take his place somehow._

_See, he's not just anyone..._

_He's my son._

_Can you hear me?_

_Can you see him?_

_He's not just anyone..._

_He's my son._

_He's my son. _


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur Kirkland was standing again beside the bed of his dying son, Alfred. A beam of sunlight crept through the crack between the closed curtains, and the strip of light illuminated the pale face of the child. The beautiful blue eyes were still closed, the soft pink lips hadn't uttered a single word in days. Matthew yawned and stretched, waking from his long nights sleep on Francis' lap. Francis smiled sadly down at the boy, doing his best to hide the despair in his eyes. Matthew looked over at Alfred again, and frowned.

"Papa." Matthew began in his quiet, little-boy voice, "Papa, ce qui es faux avec Alfred? Porquoi n'est il pas jouer avec moi? Papa, porquoi?"

Arthur did not know enough French to understand what Matthew said, but he had been asking the same question for weeks. Francis had told him what the boy said.

_Papa, what is wrong with Alfred?Why will he not play with me? Papa, why?_

It broke the hearts of both men to hear his small voice ask this. France replied as he always did.

"Matthieu, ton frere est tres malade. Il a besoin de se reposer et aller meuix." _Matthew, your brother is very sick. He needs to rest and get better._

"Malade." Sighed Matthew. The word meant 'sick'.

"Oui, fils. Tres malade." Francis kissed Matthew's blond hair and looked as though he was trying very hard not to cry. Matthew hopped down from his papa's lap and picked up his stuffed polar bear. He carefully placed the bear beside his comatose brother, and smiled over his shoulder at Arthur and Francis.

"Mon ours lui fera se sentir mieux, oui? Et Alfred va jouer avec moi! A droite, Papa? » The boy said cheerily.

« Bloody hell, can't he just speak bloody English? » Arthur groaned. « Francis, what's he saying? »

A flash of indignation crossed Francis' face, « He is speaking his native tongue! It is the best language, why should he not speak it? »

« Because I haven't the slightest idea what he's saying! » Arthur retorted.

« He is _saying_, monseuir sourcils, that his bear will make Alfred better. And then they can play together again. » Francis looked defeated. Arthur sighed.

« Non. » The Brit said in his best French accent, which wasn't very good. « Non, Mattheiu. »

« Can't you even let him hope? » France asked bitingly. He picked up Matthew and settled the boy on his hip as though Matt was still a baby, though the child was now close to five, and tall for his age. His violet eyes were filled with tears.

« But father, » Matthew said, switching to English. When he spoke in French his accent was perfect, when he spoke in English it was with a clipped British accent like Arthur. « "Why won't my bear help Al? Porquois?"

Francis snuggled the boy to his chest. "Don't worry, cher. Everything will be fine."

Matthew pouted, looking at Arthur with teary, reproachful eyes. The British man sighed and leaned against the wall, letting his head hit it with a thud. Now Matthew was unhappy with him, Francis was unhappy with him... _I don't know how much more of this I can take._ he thought. He wanted to cry, knowing that all of this was happening because he wasn't being strong enough for Al and Matt. He was letting his emotions get the better of him, make him irritable and mean. "I'll be right back."

He was walking the same steps he had days before, only now it was dawn instead of midnight, and he knew where he was going. The dark wood double doors were tall and strong. He pushed them open, stepped into the quiet dim of the chapel. The cross stood there as it always did, with those same dark, sad, understanding eyes looking down at him. He dropped to his knees again, this time too tired to even cry.

He thought about what he had prayed nights ago, begging for God to save his son, to not punish a little boy for his father's mistakes. But Alfred was still getting worse. He was still dying. Arthur knew what he had to do. He had to change, become a better person to save Al. But he couldn't do it alone.

_God, I'm down here on my knees,_

_cause it's the last place left to fall._

_Begging for another chance _

_if there's any chance at all._

_That you might still be listening  
>Loving and forgiving guys like me.<em>

He thought about the mistakes he made in his life. The rum, the controlling way he'd always held over Alfred, controlling everything that happened to the young nation. Never letting him be independent. And all the time he'd spent letting his monarchs do whatever they pleased, enforcing laws that made no sense, that hurt people and killed anyone that didn't agree with the king or queen. He hadn't done anything to stop them. He saw the error in that now. Maybe he always had, but had just been to proud to admit it.

_I've spent my whole life getting it all wrong  
>And I sure could use your help just from now on<br>I wanna be a good man  
>A do like I should man<br>I wanna be the kind of man the mirror likes to see  
>I wanna be a strong man<br>And admit that I was wrong man  
>God I'm asking you to come change me<br>Into the man I wanna be _

If only he could go back in time, if only he could change what he had done! Maybe Alfred wouldn't be sick, dying, laying comatose in a hospital bed. Maybe the doctors wouldn't shake their heads, saying regretful words with uncaring eyes. Arthur buried his head in his hands, tears squeezing out from between his tight-shut eyelids. Had Alfred seen what Arthur had done, did he blame his father for the disease that was slowly breaking his body?

_If there's any way for Al and me to make another start  
>Could you see what you could do<br>To put some strength back in his heart  
>Cause it gonna to take a miracle<br>After all I've done to really make him see_

_That I wanna be a stay man  
>I wanna be a brave man<br>I wanna be the kind of man he sees in his dreams  
>God I wanna be your man<br>And I wanna be his man  
>God I only hope he still believes<br>In the man I wanna be_

He meant it, he really did. He knew that the way he'd been living was all wrong. He needed to change. Didn't want to be that way anymore. He promised that if God would give him his son back, he would try to do everything the way he should. He'd take his kids to the park more often, he'd spend more time taking care of them and loving them, and less time controlling them. He'd do whatever it takes.

_I wanna be a giving man  
>I wanna really start living, man<br>God I'm asking you to come change me  
>Into the man I wanna be<em>

Arthur slowly got to his feet, giving that cross one more long look before turning and heading back to Al's room. An old woman watched as he left the chapel, got into the same elevator as him. She smiled, and he smiled back.

"You look like you've been having a good conversation, young man." She said in a high, creaking voice, noting the tears on his face, and the blazing determination in his green eyes.

"I have, actually." Arthur replied.

"That's good. Everyone needs someone to talk to in a place like this." The woman nodded decisively.

"That's true. That's absolutely true." Arthur left the elevator and went back to the room, where the heart monitor beeped, the only sound in the sad room. Matthew was still in France's arms. He'd removed the stuffed bear from the bed. Arthur crouched in front of Matthew so they could talk eye-to-eye.

"Hey, Matthew. I'm sorry for being such a grump earlier." Arthur said quietly. Matthew blinked at him. Francis looked interested.

Arthur continued, "I was thinking, and you know what?"

"What?" Matt asked.

"I bet that your bear _will_ help Alfred to feel better. Should we try it?"

Francis was fighting a smile. Matthew's bright violet eyes widened. "Really? Do you really think so?"

"Of course! Come on, let's go see." Arthur lifted the little boy from Francis' lap and led him by the hand to the side of his brother's bed. Matt placed the stuffed bear beside the sleeping child, tucking the thin blanket around it's thick, fuzzy white neck.

"See? Doesn't he look cozier?" Arthur knelt beside the boy and put his arm around him. Matt smiled and nodded, throwing his arms around his father's neck.

"Oui! Much better!"

Arthur smiled.


End file.
